


Engineering Inter-dependent Workplace Understandings

by alliedwolves



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A lot of "master/servant" language, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mind Manipulation, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24336418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliedwolves/pseuds/alliedwolves
Summary: Jon is pretty sure there are places his co-workers have had their memories altered, and he discovers this in the worst way possible. But how to tell, and how to fix it? With some thralls, it's easier than others. Some memories, too. Like Martin sleeping at his feet.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 79
Collections: The_Magnusquerade





	1. Negotiating Error-Free Resources

Martin's flat was further from the institute’s than Jon’s. Even with vampiric speed, that made a difference as the summer got closer, then arrived. They’d slept at Jon’s for a time, before even that started being too short, in the long summer days. Cuddled up to Jon on the mattress he’d bought for the cot in storage and records was comfortable though. Was it ultimately that different from sleeping at the archives, after Prentiss had attacked his flat? Martin couldn’t say. But it  _ felt  _ different. Like a crumby holiday, too close to home to really  _ feel  _ like one. He’d been talking about that distinction a while, Jon chuckling or hmmming along. 

"I suppose it's like wintering in Bournemouth, down as warm as it gets. You’re still going to get rained on, and it’s not quite familiar enough to be homey." 

"Martin, I grew up in Bournemouth. It is  _ nothing  _ like that. You're not getting upset about rising pub prices, for one." Jon took a deep breath, and smiled. "I bet the records room is familiar to you, though." 

Martin’s eyebrows furrowed. "What?" 

Jon’s shot up. "You know, back when Prentiss attacked?" 

The new mattress creaked as Martin wriggled out just far enough from Jon to turn and face him. "I don't know what you mean? I slept under your desk, Jon." His exasperation was fondly confused. The musty room, with its co2 canisters and handwritten annotations and supplementals, wasn’t a place Martin could remember spending much time in. Far more familiar was the smell of stale tea, dry shampoo, and old paper he associated with Jon, and the press of the seam of his jumper against his face. 

“What?” Now Jon was bewildered for real. He reached for Martin’s hand, taking it in both of his, stroking cold thumbs over Martin’s broad, deep-lined palm. “No, I might have been even more of an officious arsehole at that point, but I wouldn’t have made you–”

"Honestly, Jon, it wasn't like I minded. I was just happy to get away from the worms." Martin's exasperation was only growing. "I'm pretty sure I thought you wanted me to feel safe. Even then." Martin shuffled closer, pressing a kiss to Jon's cheek. "It was kind of sweet?"

“You don’t remember ever sleeping in... a bed? In document storage? Not once?”

"Not once." Martin was adamant. "I slept at your feet." 

Jon looked horrified. Martin didn't get why. 

"It's okay, Jon, I didn't mind."

"Martin..." It seemed really rooted in there, the Idea that Jon had forced him to sleep as his feet like a mistreated dog. If it weren't for how sure he was in his own memory, even of seeing morning at his desk having stayed too long, Jon would have started to believe him.

"Honestly, Jon, I don't know why you're getting caught up on something that happened ages ago," Martin was saying, " It's not like it's a big deal," 

“It would be, if it had happened, but…” Jon bit his lip, not noticing his fangs had cut into him until Martin kissed the blood away. Jon’s heart didn’t race, the only rush of red to his face the gleam of his eyes. Martin kissed him again, licking at the blood before wrapping his arms around Jon, kissing now in earnest.

Jon’s eyes closed, and he lost himself a moment in smooching Martin back, licking his lips and giving a muffled laugh when Martin whined at the sudden lack of his blood. But no. He had to sort this out first. No matter how pleasant the moment was. 

He pulled back, meeting Martin’s eyes. 

"Martin, I think there's something wrong in your memories. I fall- fell asleep on the desk far too much to suggest it as your sleeping place for one."

Martin blinked, stopped drawing closer to instead grimace in confusion. 

Jon reaches for Martin’s face. “May I?” 

He didn’t need the physical contact it would give him. They both knew that, after long and quiet afternoons, and panicked moments. But it helped. It let Jon ask permission, and in this moment it let Martin gently take the unburnt part of Jon’s hand, the outline of Jude Perry’s unblemished handshake, in the permanent mess of scar tissue the sun had left behind. 

"I mean, yes, but, are we going to have to do this every time we disagree?" Martin said, like he wasn't leaning into Jon's touch, body and mind.

Jon clutched Martin’s hand in turn, making sure to keep his mind out of his thrall’s. 

( _ his. It’s a beautiful word, and a kind and sharp mind, and both are  _ **_his)_ **

He shut his eyes, breaking off even the contact that afforded him. 

“We don’t have to do anything, Martin.”

"You know what I mean, Jon."

“It depends upon how tangled your memories are, and how much you want to pick them apart.”

Martin’s arms were by now tight around Jon, his head tucked close with Jon’s face close, so tantalisingly close, to his neck. Even so, he felt adrift, and Jon let the link between their minds pulse, let them both relax in the knowledge they were both  _ right there. _

"I just, sometimes one of us might just be wrong, or mistaken, or, I just, I don't want to worry every time we remember something as small as whether I slept at your feet or not differently, that's all!" Martin reached over to wrap the blanket more snuggly over Jon's shoulder, mindful of the cool even if he wasn't. 

_ It's not like I don't belong there anyway _ . 

Jon heard the thought echo within Martin's mind, as natural as Kudzu.

Jon tried not to flinch, drawing back away from Martin’s mind. Then it was Martin’s turn to cringe at that lapse of connection. He’d done something  _ wrong,  _ he just knew it, should have let Jon in, not questioned–

Jon reached out and stroked Martin’s cheek. Not his mind, as much as he wanted to flatten that anxiety spiral at its source. That was only likely to make it worse next time, and what if Jon couldn’t be there next time? No. Caresses and gentle kisses, that was the plan. 

"If you let me, we can sort out as much as possible right now. But if you want to stop...."

"I trust you." 

The furrows of his brow unfurled, slowly, beneath Jon's touch, despite the lingering nerves in his stomach. 

He let his arm drape over Jon, pressing fingertips gently into the knots of his back. "It's better to sort as much as we can now, you're right. It's just. Frustrating. Knowing there's all this stuff I don't Know about myself."

"I'm-" "You don't  _ need  _ to be sorry, Jon."

"Right." He could have a little a guilt. As a key part of who he was as a person. He leant close, kissed Martin's cheek before cupping it gently, and "knocking" at Martin's mind's door. Seeking permission to enter.


	2. Identifying Error Continuity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a consistent theme. It's something Elias would do. Jon and Martin lay down ground rules for themselves, at least, as Jon presses on to find where the alterations to Martin's mind are most consistent.

Martin released his hand, and Jon brought it up to gently turn Martin’s head up, cradling it and meeting Martin’s eyes as his own turned red with the exertion of his power. 

Martin could feel the gentle pressure of Jon’s mind at the edge of his, like a membrane they were both touching and could feel the warmth of their hands carry across. He revelled in holding Jon gently back, that Jon wasn’t pushing, before ‘stepping aside’, and letting Jon in to have a look around in his mind. Jon let his pride in Martin, his happiness with him, and their closeness physically and mentally, wash over Martin as he began his investigation. 

Martin would purr, if he could. He was lost to it, almost overwhelmed with the knowledge he was doing just what Jon wanted of him, that he was  _ good  _ and  _ loyal  _ and  **_where he belonged…_ ** _. _

Jon paused his investigation, carefully cradling Martin’s head, his soft cheeks warming Jon’s ever-cold hands. 

_ Run that by me again, Martin?  _

Martin was eager to oblige. 

**_Where I belong, with you, where you need me, at your feet, on my knees…_ **

The attached memory was pitiful. It had Jon asleep at his desk, his second-hand suit jacket draped over his shoulders and statements for a pillow and Martin curled up beneath his office chair, a cardigan over his curled up form and Martin’s jumper and Jon’s feet serving as a pillow. Jon picked at it carefully, trying to feel where it felt constructed, where he knew it might have come from him, or Martin, or from elsewhere entirely. 

_ It’s a poetic image really,  _ Martin thought, in the now.  _ At  _ **_your master’s_ ** _ feet.... _

_ I wasn’t your master then.  _

That still felt weird and stupid to say, even inside Martin’s head. 

_ You were important, and I needed to serve,  _ **_be ready to provide what you needed_ ** . 

There it was again, that.. Texture of sound in mind, a reverb that sounded like Martin, but _too much_ of Martin. Like a crude imitation, a half remembered caricature constructed from memory and knowledge, and a disdainful misunderstanding of what that added up to. 

_ Elias. He’s been here.  _

Martin flinched, his mind racing.  _ I mean, we knew that, but in my memories of sleeping overnight at the archives? Why on earth would it make a difference to Mister Smarmy Charmy Bad Guy? Seems either too romantic or not kinky enough for him.  _

Jon snorted at the idea. 

Neither of them knew who thought of it first, but the image of Elias staring, bewildered and aghast, at the pleather collars at Pulse & Cocktails, jumped back and forward between the two of them, breaking into a stronger sense of caricature and Affronted British Peer Noises. 

It took a good five minutes to calm down from their fit of giggles, the new cot’s frame shaking with their laughter and setting them off again whenever the laughter slowed. 

At last, the laughter and creaking came to an end. Jon frowned, pulling Martin closer. 

_ Hang on. Didn't you buy this mattress so we could share a bed in the archives? Because you knew the cot was too small for us both? There’s been a change in what you remember and there’s corroborating evidence. _

Martin huffed aloud, pulling a little further back. “Always a stickler for facts, Mr. Sims"

Jon followed his lead, their minds still touching, still gently stroking Martin’s consciousness, but speaking aloud as well. 

“I’m. I’m thorough, all right? And like you said. I don’t want it to be my word against yours, again and again,” He curled up closer to Martin’s warmth, shivering until Martin wrapped his arms back around him, “It’s not fair to you.” 

“Yeah, well, none of this is exactly, straightforward employment woes, is it? I guess I can’t complain about my boyfriend not wanting my head all trussed up like a package for him by our creepy boss.” Martin blew a raspberry, pushing his mind at Jon’s as much as he could, crooning a little at Jon’s returning answer of  _ I’m here, you’re loved.  _

It helped. There was a lot to be sorted through, but it helped to Know, to be anchored by Jon and his love. 

“Right, well, I guess we better get comfy, if I’m full of creepy ‘serve my master’ nonsense, and you want to make a go of it.” Martin said, and lifted himself up, letting Jon scoot beneath him, sitting up so Martin’s head was cradled in his chest, Jon’s hands resting in his hair. Jon started to reach for his mind--

Martin grumbled, and that was enough to have Jon sigh, and reach for Martin’s too-big cardigan, dwarfed in its shoulders and its dusk-coloured sleeves. 

“That covers my back and kidneys, all right, Martin? It’s not--” he slipped into speaking mentally.  _ I don’t even know if I use my kidneys anymore.  _

_ I worry. I love you.  _

Jon was so unguarded like this, and it felt good to be the same, and Martin was pretty sure that was love; mental connections, Elias’s scheming, and the call of the blood aside. He could trust: that was love. 

Jon leant down, the floppy, empty lapels of the cardigan flopping in Martin’s face as he kissed the top of his head. 

“Ready?” 

“Wait.” 

Jon could hold himself perfectly still, muscles tensed perfectly. Elias had made him do it, once or twice, but it felt, important, knowing how much his word held sway in these mental explorations. 

“If you can, can you keep us separate? Like we’re watching the memories. I don’t want to feel that again. I don’t even think I’ll want to remember them, necessarily.” 

“I can keep them for you, for when and if you do? Or do my best?” Jon relaxed a little, letting Martin scooch himself a little higher up into his lap. 

Okay. Martin nodded. He could be okay with that. “Ready,” Martin affirmed, and Jon’s mind took him in its grasp, and his head lolled into Jon’s waiting hands, gently playing with his hair. 


End file.
